The Way It Could Have Been
by The Ace of Lungs
Summary: When the Justice Leauge takes an unplanned trip to some point in the past, Superman is unable to resist playing the hero. But is doing a good deed always a good thing?


Hello.

This is my first time posting here. I'm working with characters and styles that I've never really used before, in an attempt to broaden my horizons, so any pointers and constructive criticism are appreciated. If you don't like my story, please tell me why, so I can try to do better.

Disclaimer: I do not own Batman, Superman, or any members of the Justice League. They belong to DC Comics and Warner Bros., and I do not own DC Comics and Warner Bros...

...yet.

--

_The Way It Could Have Been: __Chapter One_

The air rippled, blue waves of light and energy radiating from a point in time and space; a tear in the very fabric of reality...

A tear through which a large hunk of metal was suddenly hurled without warning.

The ship skidded across the empty streets as it landed, until its nose finally planted in the side of a building. Bricks, dust, and rubble showered down onto the front of the sleek vessel.

Tentatively, the ship's occupants exited their craft and gathered about the point of collision to survey the damage. Fortunately, they seemed to be in an abandoned part of the city, and so no one had witnessed the incident but a few winos who quickly scurried away, unable to believe their own eyes and promising themselves and God that they would never touch alcohol again!

One of the passengers, clothed mostly in tight, red material, turned to address the others. "Okay, show of hands for everyone who says John shouldn't drive anymore!"

His companion turned and glared at him.

"So where are we?" a third, a female, inquired.

The first looked around them, taking in the buildings that were strange, yet somehow vaguely familiar. He reached up and scratched the back of his neck. "Huh. Dunno."

While the three of them gazed around in mild confusion, their fourth companion strode up to their crashed vessel. He placed both hands about the ship and pulled, extracting it from where it had been lodged in the side of the building. More rubble poured down around them, as the building protested the disturbance.

The other three looked on as the fourth set the ship on solid ground and set about brushing the dust and debris from the top and front of it. The female grimaced. "Bruce is not gonna like that."

"Oh come on," said the first, gesturing to the more obvious scars and batterings of their craft. "You can totally buff that out!"

"Wally," the second said irritably, "Just shut up. Let's get to work repairing the Javelin so we can get back to our own time before that future-gizmo wears off and we're stranded here!"

All agreed and, with few comments, immediately went to work repairing the ship.

While they labored, one of them suddenly paused. His head snapped up as though listening intently to sounds that only he could hear.

"Clark?" The first of the four asked. "What is it?"

The man clothed in blue and red seemed to wrestle with himself, internally. Finally, he simply announced that he had to leave and would be back shortly. He lifted into the air and flew off before anyone could protest.

---

One of the cardinal rules of time travel, so they say, is, "Do not interfere with the course of history." Nevertheless, Clark could not bring himself to ignore a cry for help.

It was just a petty street crime, anyway, he rationalized. It wasn't as if he were over-turning the results of World War II...

He would do this fast, and avoid being seen. No one would know what had really happened, and whatever anyone said about it afterwards would be put down as merely an urban legend. In terms of history, it wouldn't even matter.

Once he settled this in his mind, it was easy to quickly fly to the scene of the hold-up-in-progress and fire twin rays of pure heat at the weapon the mugger was holding. As expected, the man yelped and dropped his gun. Once the thief was disarmed, his intended victims quickly gained the upper hand, and that was Clark's cue to fly back to the Javelin before anyone saw him.

---

He'd seen him.

No one -- not his parents, nor the bad man -- had noticed the figure who seemed to have been floating in mid-air, but the boy had definitely seen him. Primary colors were pretty hard to miss. He -- or it? -- had vanished in an instant, and the boy had no doubt that anything he said about it would be dismissed. After all, he was only eight.

Even so, there was no denying that something strange had happened.

The man had dropped the gun as if it were a live coal. Even though it had not been fired, there were traces of smoke wafting from it.

Something had happened.

His mother turned to his father, trembling. "Thomas?"

His father dusted his hands -- after the bad man had dropped the gun, he had sent the would-be mugger to the ground with a solid right-hook -- and pulled the startled woman into his arms. He reached out for the boy, also. "It'll be okay. Martha, Bruce, it'll be okay."

The boy looked up at his father. "That was cool!"

His mother's eyes widened and she stared at him briefly. Then she closed her eyes and groaned.

His father patted her shoulder without letting go of either of them. "Come on. Let's go home."

---

_TBC_


End file.
